Jackie Pick is a former teacher and current writer living in the Chicago area. She is a contributing author to multiple anthologies, including Multiples Illuminated, So Glad They Told Me: Women Get Real about Motherhood, Here in the Middle, as well as the and the literary magazines The Sun and Selfish. She received Honorable Mention from the Mark Twain House and Museum for her entry in the Royal Nonesuch Humor Writing Competition. Jackie is a contributing writer at Humor Outcasts, and her essays have been featured on various online sites including McSweeney's, Belladonna Comedy, Mamalode, The HerStories Project, and Scary Mommy. A graduate of the University of Chicago and Northwestern University, Jackie is co-creator and co-writer of the award-winning short film Fixed Up, and a proud member of the 2017 Chicago cast of Listen To Your Mother.
In lieu of my regular month-in-review post, I’m resharing something I wrote in May of 2023. Monsters are on our minds these days. November shall be reviewed in my usual nonsense way.
In the heart of the Muppetverse, amidst a tapestry of vibrant characters and whimsical narratives, stands a beacon of childlike wonder and boundless optimism, a giant whose iconic blue exterior conceals a tale of profound transformation and existential introspection. Few in Hollywood have the talent and range to achieve a level of stardom where one name suffices:
Streep.
Pacino.
Grover.
And he’s cute, too.
We meet at a trendy bistro in Williamsburg, eager to delve into his illustrious career that spans from humble beginnings in local theater to soaring exploits as a beloved superhero. Grover’s polymath talents have propelled him into the ranks of America’s elite artists. However, the journey from his nurturing roots at PBS to the esteemed shores of HBO was far from effortless, strewn with challenges that made success anything but elementary.
As we settle in for an intimate conversation, I ask about the delicate balance between the broad humor of Sesame Street and his infamously meticulous approach to zaniness. Sipping his cucumber lime spritzer, Grover ponders the question. “It is always a quest to find the heart beneath the punchlines,“ Grover shares, an unexpected surge of static electricity passing between us when his hand brushes against mine. “Every joke I tell, every lamppost I fly into, I strive to capture a truth, a moment of connection that transcends the silliness and connects with the human condition.”
It is evident before we finish our burrata and heirloom tomato salads that, while Grover’s on-screen persona is a bundle of joy, his off-screen persona can be enigmatic. Grover’s career isn’t just a litany of roles; it’s a manifold reflection of his ability to become and play
I steer the conversation to Method Acting. “I believe in authenticity,” Grover says. “Whether I am donning the cape of Super Grover or showing viewers the exquisite agony of working as a waiter to a fussy customer, I strive to bring truth to every character. It is all about connecting with the audience, being loud and soft. Do you know the difference?” Before I answer, he cries. “LOUD!” It is transcendent, a performance matching the ethereal mastery of Tilda Swinton’s shape-shifting in “Orlando.”
Indeed, from taxi driver to flight attendant, Grover’s preparation is exhaustive. “I do the research,” he says, his head gently tilting from side to side — one of his charming idiosyncrasies. “I have driven the cab. I have worked in restaurants, and I have sold ears door-to-door. If I want the audience to believe it, I have to live it.” Grover believes that his career isn’t just a list of roles; it’s a chronicle of his metamorphoses.
But this transformational zeal, while laudable, is the stuff of gossip on set. Some costars find his relentless process admirable, others roll their googly eyes when he refuses to break character and wears his Super Grover cape around all day.
Gentle giant Big Bird groused, “Grover is… intense. Sometimes, too intense.”
Pathological hoarder Oscar the Grouch shared, “Grover always had this existential itch, questioning the very fabric of his felted existence. It made for some interesting trash can conversations. Now scram!”
Pigeon fanatic and confirmed bachelor Bert added, “Grover spent an entire week engrossed in the study of prepositions for ‘Over, Under, Around, and Through.‘ It’s a level of commitment to something really tedious that I respect.”
Then there were those rumors of a rift between Grover and Count von Count, suggesting that their divergent approaches to performance caused tension backstage. Lines were drawn as Muppets aligned themselves with either the chaotic charm of Grover or the methodical precision of the Count. Both Grover and the Count deny this (“No! No! No! That’s three nos!”) although they acknowledge there were heated discussions. Grover explains, “That is about the work, man. It is not personal. It is like the Dadaist feud between Marcel Duchamp and Francis Picabia. Ultimately, it is the children who benefit.”
As we discussed his background, it is clear he grapples with profound questions about the role of some unseen hand in shaping his identity. Over plates of Wagyu beef carpaccio, Grover regales me with tales of his early aspirations as an actor. “I attended the School of Muppet Dramatic Arts, a place where the alphabet was recited in iambic pentameter. I sipped from the chalice of the greats there.“ For his senior performance, Grover presented an original piece entitled “BLUE GOD,” showcasing his groundbreaking jazz kazoo skills.
That early work paid off. Grover’s Monsterpiece Theater performances have been lauded for their depth and breadth. There’s something hauntingly beautiful about him tackle a Shakespearean monologue, unblinking and unconcerned with emotional regulation.
Yet, as the shadows of middle age crept up, a yearning restlessness tugged. “I hit rock bottom in Season 19. I was unable to connect with the show or the characters. Maria and Luis got married. Elmo’s World took off. And where was I? Where was I going?” Grover struggled with a well-publicized problem with huffing fabric glue but traveled the world, got clean, and eventually found renewed purpose in his Global Grover segments.
What’s next? While he has no plans to leave Sesame Street, Grover gazes toward new horizons in brooding glory. “I am open to exploring opportunities to do prestige shows at HBO.” Grover then revealed, “I auditioned for the role of Roman on Succession. The control issues, the exploration of exotic fetishes — it would have been a good fit. I know what it is like to feel you are someone’s puppet. Like you are a version of yourself waiting to happen, but your story has not been written yet.“ He paused, allowing the profoundness of his words to sink in. “The Monster at the End of the Book? It is me. It is all of us.”
This was one of those months when books held fast and made claims on a corner of my inner world. It’s cramped in there and I probably should Marie Kondo the place, but for now, these books are welcome to squat in my brain corners and bring me joy.
This was not just a “hey, nice book” kind of month, but the kind where at least two of these are straight-up shoe-ins for my end-of-year Best Of list.
The silvery thread binding these books together is that they are all about the act of storytelling, how sometimes that’s the only way to get through. Or in. Or out.
I’ve been reshaped by these works.
Which is all just to say these are the books that I enjoyed enough to finish in the last month:
If you’re going to take on Twain, you’d better bring the goods.
Percival Everett not only brings the goods, the whole goods, and nothing but the goods — he delivers them with such unapologetic brilliance that you’ll find yourself wondering, ‘How has no one done this before?’ And then you realize — no one else could have done this.
I am thunderstruck.
James is not merely a retelling of Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, it’s a complete reimagining where Jim — now James — steps into the center of the narrative. He is now a man with his own inner life, vibrant with intellect and grappling with the cruel complexities of his life. Cerebral, flawed, painfully conscious of what it means to exist in his circumstances, James becomes a moral force.
Everett critiques both the historical portrayal of Jim in Twain’s original work and contemporary issues of race. The narrative blends humor, satire, pathos, and sharp commentary, with James often confronting his situation with a deep sense of survival, wit, and profound love for his family. It’s brutal and beautiful and fresh.
I marveled at the fullness of James as a character. He is no longer a sidekick, no longer just a figure for Huck to bounce off. He’s no “Mary Sue,” either. He’s deeply human. If this book isn’t immediately welcomed into the American Canon, I’m not sure what would be.
There’s also a lot of philosophy thrown in there because YEAH, THERE IS. And it works. Some folks have expressed displeasure with how the book’s toe-dips into farce seem abrupt. Welcome to literature. Think of it like a journey. A journey on a river of some sort. Where there are twists and turns and sometimes the river is gentle and sometimes… Do we see where I’m going with this?
This is a genre-bending boundary-pusher for sure, and any liberties it takes with the original story are just and satisfying. To tackle Twain requires a certain audacity, and to succeed requires genius. Everett has both in abundance.
There is no doubt that schools will use this as a parallel text when studying Adventures of Huckleberry Finn.
There is also no doubt this will be on my Best Of 2024 list.
All towns should have a bookstore, don’t you think?
Island bookstore owner A.J. Fikry is definitely not having the time of his life. Grieving the loss of his wife, struggling to keep his bookstore afloat, self-medicating, bereft of passion and connection. However — hooray! — everything begins changing when a toddler is left in his bookstore. What follows are not thunderous events but a soft, deliberate opening of life.
This is a novel about a community only as flawed and fragile as the people within it, and A.J.’s bookstore becomes the fulcrum for everything: grief, love, indiscretions, second chances. It’s life, piece by tangled piece.
Perhaps by dint of being set in a bookstore, the book celebrates not just the joy of reading but the necessity of it. This sweet novel is a love letter to books, bookstores, and the communities that form around them. It’s well-paced, though it takes a few big leaps in time that might make you a little woozy. Still, the storytelling works beautifully. Zevin is deeply respectful of and never underestimates her audience, a skill also showcased in her Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow. Zevin’s storytelling is tight and purposeful — there’s not a wasted word or superfluous scene. Every moment builds A.J.’s world and relationships, while also pulling the reader into the life of the bookstore and town, stitched together by books.
The quirky main and secondary characters feel like they’ve stepped out of an exceptionally good sitcom — believable, loveable, and tinged with just enough sorrow to avoid being treacly. Literary references throughout the novel are sweet treats, and A.J.’s book notes are lovely touches. It eventually is made clear who these notes are for and how they tie into the plot, which made me hug the book to my chest. Yes, I’m weird. It’s fine.
Ultimately, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry is a love story. I’ve said before that all stories are love stories. This one isn’t sappy, disappointing, or cynical. Neither are real jaw-dropping twists here; instead, the story unfolds in small, quiet ways. This book may not cause you to bolt upright, but little moments you enjoyed will stay with you long after you’ve finished.
Zevin’s writing is self-assured, and she trusts the reader to keep up and fill in the gaps. It’s zippy. It’s wackadoo. And it’s a reminder that sometimes, a good book — and a good life — are about those quiet, small moments that happen when you crack things open.
It’s hygge at its finest.
All stories should come with a bookstore, don’t you think? After all, “a place ain’t a place without a bookstore.”
In Michigan earlier this year, I picked up a bag of Limited Edition Cherry Barbecue potato chips. (Stay with me.) They were…peculiar. Sweet, spicy, not quite balanced, all in a way that made me go, “What is happening?” I wasn’t even sure if I liked them. But two sittings later? Gone. Gone like yesterday’s regrets. And here’s the kicker: I’d eat those weird-a$$ chips again fistful by fistful in a heartbeat.
This was not unlike reading Nothing to See Here by Kevin Wilson. At first, it’s strange. This cannot hold up. But it does. You keep reading. You’re hooked. And suddenly you’ve finished the book, wondering what just happened and, more importantly, HOW DID THAT WORK AND WHERE CAN YOU GET MORE?
And by “you” I mean “me.”
I’d read this weird-a$$ book again in a heartbeat.
(*extreme Stefon voice*) Nothing to See Here has (almost) everything — friendship, responsibility, and spontaneous human combustion. It’s strange, dark, and hilarious. Wilson somehow makes these fire children funny and tragic all at once. They’re weird, the narrator is weird. It’s all weird and it works.
After reading a string of heavy, intense novels, Nothing to See Here gave me literary whiplash. Let me tell you, though, I love a funny book that writes its own rules, that’s wholly original, and doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard to be ultra-cool or different. It just is. Wilson pulls this off.
Our narrator, Lillian, is sharp-tongued, jaded, and just messed up enough to carry a story. She may be even a little much…her vocal fry practically buzzes off the page. And I couldn’t get enough of her.
If I have one complaint, it’s that I wanted just a bit more at the end. A glimmer of what’s next, a sense of where these characters might land after the final page. But then again, that’s life, right? Stories don’t always wrap up neatly.
And that’s the thing — the story Lillian believes about herself is one of failure — she’s convinced that a mistake in high school sealed her fate as a woman with no prospects. Caring for these kids forces her to rewrite that story, imagining herself as someone capable of love and responsibility. Madison, the children’s mother and Lillian’s high school friend, on the other hand, has crafted a flawless public image. Both women’s stories are their emotional shields until they’re forced to confront the truth.
The children’s story is different — they’ve been treated like secrets, their combustive condition dismissed or explained away by crackpot theories. Wilson handles all this with great humor and pathos. It’s crackers and I felt like it shouldn’t work, but good grief, I devoured the book in two sittings.
Can outrageously great writing elevate an otherwise good book? Yes, it can. Exhibits A and B: Yes, it can. Exhibits A and B:
“You don’t believe the sky is falling until a chunk of it falls on you.”
“You’d be surprised how quickly the mind goes soggy in the absence of other people. One person alone is not a full person: we exist in relation to others. I was one person: I risked becoming no person.”
Atwood’s writing remains as sharp as ever, resulting in The Testaments punching above its weight. Did I love it as much as The Handmaid’s Tale? No. The Testaments feels a little like a victory lap, more epilogue than continuation, an attempt to close open loops.
The story picks up 15 years after The Handmaid’s Tale, with three narrators: Aunt Lydia (yes, the one we know and loathe), plus two new characters — Agnes, a Gilead-born girl, and Daisy, a Canadian teenager. Credit where it’s due — Atwood gifts each with a voice that feels real.
Aunt Lydia’s chapters were my favorites. We learn more about Gilead’s power structures and Lydia’s own twisted brand of resistance. Meanwhile, Agnes and Daisy get tangled up in a plot to take down the regime. The stakes are high…or should be. Lydia is fascinating — a judge turned ruthless enforcer turned murkily-motivated saboteur — but I wanted more of the internal fallout as she took on those roles. I WANT MORE RECKONING, please and thank you.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe Atwood is telling us that authoritarianism rots you from the inside — and that Lydia, like the rest of us, is susceptible and sometimes their fates aren’t satisfying. But oof, I wanted to see more of that rot unfold on the page.
The two teens’ intertwined stories had some moments — like hearing about young brides-to-be inside Gilead — but the stakes didn’t quite hit the way they did in The Handmaid’s Tale. The glimpses of life outside Gilead didn’t pack quite the punch I was hoping for.
Am I unfairly holding The Testaments up to an impossible standard? MAYBE. I wanted more machinations, more urgency, more visceral danger, more fire. The story felt pale next to the original, and the big “reveal” at the end didn’t quite land.
Or maybe I’m numbed because *mumbles something about 2024.*
Honestly, I’d have loved this to be only Aunt Lydia’s story from start to finish (bring in the teens, sure, but through her eyes.)
That being said, there were enough satisfying moments to answer a few lingering questions left over from The Handmaid’s Tale and for me to finish the book (and I’m quite brilliant at not finishing books.)
A worthwhile read for Atwood fans — fanatical and casual.
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien
My boys and I read this at the same time. Them for class, me for connection. This is not a book one reads for pleasure, but it is a reminder that sometimes a great book stops being a story and becomes a reflection.
The Things They Carried by Tim O’Brien is a collection of twenty-two interconnected short stories revolving around a platoon of American soldiers during the Vietnam War and the literal and emotional burdens each soldier carries, if only to remember they are human.
This is a demanding read — not because it’s obtuse or buried in authorial swoops and swirls, but because O’Brien splays himself open, unblinkingly and with an honesty that begs for his precise language.
O’Brien uses a blend of autobiographical details and fictionalization to share stories of the haunting complexities of war and its aftermath.
One of the central themes is storytelling — how stories help people cope, give meaning to their experiences, and preserve memory. O’Brien uses his characters to explore the meaning of truth in both war and writing, especially during and after times of extreme conflict. Against this backdrop, we witness (sometimes unwillingly) the worst and best of human nature. It is deep and disturbing, and hoo boy, did it earn its status as a finalist for the Pulitzer.
Read this when you are in a place to do so, if only because the writing and structure are elegant and majestic. But also, read it when you can stomach the violence and sorrow. The title story may be one of the best-crafted pieces I’ve ever read. The non-linear organization of the book is a lot like memory itself — asynchronous, spiraling, sometimes perseverating, sometimes rushing ahead because that’s the only speed one can self-preserve and still tell the truth. But ultimately, even that rushing is just procrastination from confronting the inevitable.
This is also most definitely going on my Best Of 2024 list.
A Word Before My Shenanigans: While September brought its share of inconveniences for me, it brought devastation to entire communities. Both the community of Springfield, Ohio and those affected by Hurricane Helene faced unimaginable struggles. If you can support your fellow humans in need, I’ll list some places to donate in the comment section.
First, a formal apology for the excessive cuteness about to unfold. I know we’re all pulling ourselves out of the Septempurgatory like it was some sort of bar brawl. Honestly, I’m still finding to-do list shrapnel in my hair.
Septemperament feels like an identity crisis. It’s lumped intofall, and yet we’re standing here, sweating through our half-baked autumn dreams, waiting for the air to chill and pretending we’re not as swampy as an armpit. We can’t settle into the fiscal-year groove until October, yet Halloween candy is already out. Sure, maybe a sugar high is the only thing fending off the looming Septemburnout, but is it also contributing to our sweating? MAYBE. But fun-sized candy does help pass the time during the month’s IMPORTANT AND URGENT MEETINGS. Miss one of those and you activate Septemergency mode.
For a solid 75% of the month, my household was a Septempetri dish. The whole family was sick, overlap-style. And then it was me. Fortunately, just bad head colds, no Septemblarping.
There were new school year events, new responsibilities, and new car troubles, by which I mean Septempanic-inducing check engine lights popping on. Then off. Then on again. We even went to an event that required thematic costumes. My costume highlighted the bags under my eyes. I should have gone as a nice set of Samsonite luggage, possibly with a charming primate ready to toss me around to test my durability.
Emails started rolling in with all those “easy” one-pot meal recipes like it’s cuffing season for dinner plans. The Septemptation is real, though. If I could just toss all my responsibilities into a one-and-done situation — meals, laundry, driving, that would be the Septembest thing ever.
We watched the latest Ghostbusters film. I won’t go so far as to say it was Septerrible, but I didn’t look up from my book once, and I’m a big Paul Rudd fan.
Which is all to say, Septembrawl was a slap-fight with the calendar, the clock, and most of humanity. At any moment, it felt like I’d trip a wire and set off a Septimebomb if I didn’t run faster, farther, or with more finesse.
(That is all metaphorical. I don’t run.)
The busyness swallowed the month, and I haven’t even started on my Reedsy work, which doesn’t feel great. Once this newsletter is out in the ether (hello, Ether-friend!), that’s the next tab I’ll be clicking. Unless, of course, some turn-of-the-century cough starts going around the house again, because obviously.
Anyway, Septemblur has been brought to you (and me) by ibuprofen and my trusty day planner, which I now hope to fill in with ink rather than pencil.
And with that, we Septumble into glorious October — not a moment too soon.
Here are some splashes of marvelous from August, 2024
I got to attend this Printer’s Row Lit Fest and chat with the most marvelous Deborah L. King (whose books you really just have to read. I won’t argue with you about this). Learn more about her work here.
We had milkshakes at Homer’s Ice Cream one night just because. And on another night, we went to Steak ‘n Shake. These are not the same, but each is satisfying in different ways.
Aaaand I’m realizing this blog is mostly an ice cream fandom account.
Apparently, referring to chores as “side quests” is a thing now. (See here and here.) I tried it. I still don’t do chores, but now I’ve got the added stress of imperiling entire worlds because I haven’t tackled the stuck-on gunk in the refrigerator crisper drawer.
Jackie Pick 